FROM THE LETTERS OF RACHEL HENNINGS
a POEM EVOCATIVE OF MELINDA’S BELLAMBI’S LAKE and written in the late 1870s but from a very different family background despite many commonalities of Colonial Experience. The last of Rachel’s letters are written from the Illawarra – Wollongong matters at a time similar to that of Melinda.
SPRINGFIELD,
MARCH 25TH 1878
My Dearest Etta,
I am afraid I have two letters of yours unanswered, but I rather delayed
replying to the last, in order to make some inquiries about the old
King’s friendship with Grandpapa. From Hannah Dashwood’s note, which you
forwarded to me, however, I suppose you no longer want the information
you asked for.
However, for our own satisfaction, I ascertained beyond a doubt that the
intimacy was during our grandmother’s life and not after Grandpapa had
married Mrs Buxton. I think it was the Princess Sophia, not Amelia, who
was thrown from her horse near Poxwell, and lay ill there for some days,
and it was on this occasion, I suppose, that she presented the silver tea
and coffee service to Mrs Henning.
Amy has the teapot, and I think the Edmund Buxtons have the coffee-pot.
The inscription on the former I got Amy to copy for me; and it is as
follows:
The gift of her Royal Highness the Princess Sophia to Elizabeth Henning,
September 21st 1799.
Grandpapa did not marry Mrs Buxton till 1808 (see Life of Sir Fowell
Buxton), so this inscription settles the question at once.
In 1811 the King was pronounced insane and the Prince of Wales appointed
Regent, so I suppose his trips to Weymouth were over by that time, or a
year or two earlier.
The illness of the Princess Sophia was most likely the beginning of the
acquaintance, and it must have continued some time after our
grandmother’s death, for I remember a story of Aunt Harriet’s–she kept
house at Poxwell after Mrs Henning’s death–and she said that on one
occasion the Royal party were lunching there, and she was handing a tray
of something to one of the royal dukes (I think the Duke of Sussex), and,
seeing her standing, he got up and insisted on her sitting down and
waited on her himself.
Then there was a story of the old King taking up our father in his arms,
when he was a very small boy, and asking if he knew who he was, and being
very much delighted when the child replied “Grandpapa King!” And you must
remember Grandpapa’s pet story about his meeting the King out riding
shortly after our grandmother’s death, when he was in great sorrow, and
how the King desired his train to fall back, as “he wanted to speak to
Henning alone”, and then, riding on with him; “he talked to him like a
father” and advised him to marry again, for the sake of his young family:
“But mark my words! Mark my words! Mark my words, Henning! If you ever
expect to find another such woman as your first wife, you will be
disappointed.” I remember exactly how Grandpapa used to move back his
plate and tell that story.
Another of Grandpapa’s stories was that one day the King came from
Weymouth and inquired for Mrs Henning, and was informed by the servant
that she was washing lace. The King had a way of repeating his words:
“Washing lace, washing lace, is she? Then I’ll go and help her.” A
comic-paper published in Weymouth produced an illustration of the King
and Mrs Henning over a wash-tub, washing lace together.
I am certain it was at Poxwell, not at Weymouth, that the King used to
visit, because while at Poxwell Grandpapa was farming the estate himself,
but when he went to Weymouth he was a banker (and, if you recollect, it
was the run on that bank that ruined him), and another of his stories was
that one day he was complaining to the King of the difficulty of getting
sufficient men to make the hay, and the next morning he found a small
detachment of soldiers drawn up before the door, they having been sent by
the King with orders to make Mr Henning’s hay. I believe they performed
more in the way of consuming bread and cheese and beer than in haymaking.
I have been able to get the inscription on the gold cup, which Biddulph
keeps at his bankers’ and I dare say he will get it out at the new baby’s
christening and fill it with claret cup to drink his health. The
inscription is as follows:
First of all there is the Royal coat-of-arms on the gold cup, then:
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Dieu et Mon Droit.
Given September 26th 1800, to Edmund Henning, of Poxwell, in the county
of Dorset, esquire, by his Majesty King George III.
In some of your summer trips you ought to go to Weymouth and visit the
old places. It, is a pretty drive of about four miles to Poxwell. It must
have been a fine old place once, built in a square round a court and with
stone-mullioned windows and a large low hall with oak rafters and a great
oak table where, very likely, “sacred Majesty took his déjeuner”, and a
fine old brick gateway, or, rather, gatehouse, with a small chamber over
it, where there is a legend that some heiress of the Henning family was
shut up for contumacy, and betimely escaped therefrom with her lover.
I used to hear a great deal of family history from Uncle and Aunt John
Henning, but I have forgotten it now. There was an old place called
“Henning’s Crookston” where our great-grand-papa lived, and where all his
family were brought up. Then there is a most picturesque old manor house,
called Radypoll, close to Weymouth, which also belonged to Grandpapa and
afterwards to Uncle John.
Wolverton was a very fine old place with an ivy-covered gatehouse as
large as a modern cottage and the house a sort of castellated building.
Biddulph was the rightful heir to these properties.
I do not think you have read this poem of mine, so I will inflict it on
you:
THE DAYS OF CHILDHOOD
The happy days of childhood, how swift they fleet away;
How soon beneath the world’s cold breath its feelings must decay,
Its fervent warm affections, its confidence and truth,
With all its bright imaginings and cherished hopes of youth.
The gladsomings and gaiety its sunny light that throws
O’er every time and scene till all in its own bright sunshine glows.
Alas! That life’s dark clouds should e’er that fairy dream destroy
And overcast that rosy dawn of innocence and joy.
There is no spot so lovely as our early childhood’s home,
And thither still the heart returns, wherever we may roam;
The tangled brakes where wildflowers grew its overshadowing grove,
Its streamlets and its valleys claim our first and latest love.
There is no joy like that we felt when in the springtide hours
We bounded o’er the wild, free hills, and plucked the mountain flowers
Where tall fern waves and harebell blue with purple heather blend
Such gay, unfettered happenings with the years of childhood end.
There are no friends like those who for our infancy have cared,
And no companions dear as those who all its pleasures shared.
Oh, what is like a mother’s love, or who her place can fill
When her cheering smile has passed away and her gentle voice is still!
And none can e’er such sympathy in weal or woe impart
As a sister gives who aye hath shared each feeling of the heart;
And where shall we such shelter find, in trouble or in harm,
As in the sure protection of a brother’s shielding arm?
We may form new ties of friendship and other bonds of love,
But they are not like the flowery links that our happy childhood wove
For the world its chilling influence upon our hearts has thrown,
And though the chain may sparkle still, its first bright glow is gone.
How often when around the earth the shades of twilight close
And evening’s gentle hand hath hushed all nature to repose
The visions of the past arise, and many a vanished scene
To memory appears, as though no change had ever been.
And mid the stillings of that hour we seem to hear a sound
Like whispers from the spirit-land breathed in the air around;
Voices of those whose pilgrimage has long been ended here,
O’er whom the quiet grave has closed since many a weary year.
And for a while as once we were again we seem to be;
Again we feel the gaiety of a soul unworn and free.
But the dream decays, and life once more assumes a dreary hue,
And all its sad realities again stand forth to view.
There are hours of happiness on earth, but their sunshine may not last.
And the joyous days of childhood must be soon for ever past.
They are like the gleams of treacherous light that on the storm-cloud play
Then fade away, and deeper gloom succeeds the short-liv’d ray.
I must conclude. Fond love to Mr Boyce and the children and to yourself.
Believe me, dearest Etta, your most affectionate sister,
RACHEL TAYLOR
